


Me vs You

by hyperchroma (illizarov)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-25 11:44:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7531498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illizarov/pseuds/hyperchroma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“Studies have shown that scented and coloured toilet paper increases the risk of rectal inflammation.”</p>
</blockquote>It all started with room number 13.
            </blockquote>





	Me vs You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [transtobio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/transtobio/gifts).



> I hope you like memes. If not, please accept it as a justification for the hysteria.
> 
> A full-strength, voice-breaking shoutout to [Batman](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Batman/), who beta-ed and introduced me to [this trippy, trippy song](https://youtu.be/uH1OthDFWZM).

 

April. The moment Kuroo opens the door, with that rusty key the reception gave him, hanging from a supposed-to-be-white-kind-of-piss-colour keychain with the number 13 on it, he sees a red jacket, gently fluttering in the wind on the back of a chair. Without meaning to, all the Kill Bill sirens start to shriek. And upon closer inspection, the bold, white, old school font is unmistakable on the back: _NEKOMA._

 _Calm._ Kuroo tells himself. Years of watching his step—like every minute of his life has boiled down to the feeling of crossing the void between the platform and the train, for the sheer number of times Yaku’s made him _trip_ because his existence is nigh invisible at eye level—has punched some sense into him. Three years. Three years, he has spent with the three year threes in Nekoma: Kai, Yaku, and himself. What are the odds—of the jacket being Yaku’s? The jacket is too big. The jacket is smooth, and it wouldn’t be Yaku’s, because he has the habit of rolling up sleeves and making them crease. And he’s right. He’s right, because Kai walks out from one of the two doors, leaving it slightly ajar. From the strip of interior he can see, the design is as bad as the accommodation website described it to be. It leaves a strange feeling in Kuroo. The other door is closed, and he’s now as vulnerable as one of those TV show guests, interrogated by Monty Hall: _“Do you want to change your mind?”_

Still. It’s not Yaku, and he’s eternally glad. A dove of peace flies by, from what little canvas of the Real World they can see from the window; a holy ray shines upon the saviour in the living room, which is sparsely covered by a mass-produced IKEA coffee table and a sofa probably recovered from the dumpsters. Still, the air is reverent. Tears threaten to well up in Kuroo’s eyes.

“Kai,” he says, voice trembling ever so slightly as he drops his bag onto the sofa, which warns him of disintegration, “Oh, Kai, I was so scared.”

Kai opens his arms to hug him. Gives a few pats in the back. What a kind person. “Ah, yes. University does sound quite terrifying—especially med school.”

No. “No.” Kuroo backs away, shaking his head. “You don’t understand. The second“—his voice breaks—“I opened the door, the jacket was _right there_.” He pauses, retracting his hand that’s making various chopping motions at the innocent chair, the jacket still fluttering in the draught. The _motion_ makes him motion-sick. He looks at the floor to contain himself, and back up again. “I was scared shitless, Kai. I was so scared—I could only fart.”

 _Here_ —Kai rolls his eyes inwardly—the central dogma of his teammates’ coping mechanisms. Some are subtle: Kenma glares at every approaching human being like he’s born to be a Venus human trap. Some are loud, albeit not literally: Taketora ingests his weight. Some are—there’s no other way to put it—inexplicable. Kuroo’s teeny, tiny secret is what sounds like someone passing wind. The simile is crucial, because the officially recorded, longest fart is two minutes forty-two. Kuroo’s at it for ten minutes already. Whatever this fear is, it sounds like a seriously fucked-up one. So Kai takes his guesses—trauma? Rumours? Insecurities?

Later. The questions can be left for later, because the epitome of the wind-passing is walking. Yaku is walking himself out of the door, opened to a tiny strip of poor interior design. Yaku steps up from behind Kai, a smaller Nekoma jacket on him. And this is when abject horror pools in Kuroo’s eyes, which convinces Kai that: _yes_ , with the intensity of a million of Bokuto’s spikes, he is indeed reliving the worst moment of his life. In a way, he knew it would be inevitable. Fate has been dropping hints _everywhere_ , as early on as when he was taking his last ceremonious shit at home, just to mark his territory, until he arrived at this foreign land: the door frame set so _low_ Kuroo nearly concussed himself upon entry, the shoes on the mat so _tiny_ he should be worried about the dorm being haunted, and just the pounding fear in his heart. The palpitations. He’s so young. All of those, he can’t explain. As are many other things between himself and Yaku. He never demanded an explanation. What use is there of an explanation for something so inexplicably tragic, when all he wants is a how-to in obtaining the opposite?

Stop. Yaku stops behind Kai, vibrating more than a rocket ready to set off at zero. He mirrors Kuroo’s expression, but only ten times as intense because: intensity is inversely proportional to size, right? Which is why it shouldn’t really surprise _anybody_ —not even the alien kin from next doors that greeted Kuroo before all this could unravel—that Yaku launches himself towards Kuroo. He physically launches himself _onto_ Kuroo and yanks him by the collar. He has the kind of bad breath no gas mask can protect from, and the only thing holding him back from laying Kuroo out, sashimi-platter-style, is in every way destined: Kai’s hold on the back of his shirt. Nothing can stop him, though. His teeth are still bared. As long as he can still jump, there’s still a chance. So he grits out through his teeth, meaning it and not meaning it at once,

“When have I ever _wronged_ you, asshole?”

 

There’s no need to ask. Laid out are the cards between them. But, they’re not on terms as bad as they _like_ to make it seem. Sure—they did make their own special spot in the Nekoma VBC history. They were the first ones to hold hands at the school gates for three hours after tipping carts of volleyballs over each other. They were also the first ones that managed to Heimlich manoeuvre each other, _simultaneously_ and without the actual intention, during team-bonding games last year that escalated a tad too quickly. People say they experience the world at a different dimension. That’s right—where’s the F for _fun_ in _life_ , if it’s not about blowing things out of proportion? Bokuto has rubbed off on him in one way or two. He’s probably underestimating it this time.

“You do _not_ want to jump off this flight of stairs.” Kai tells Yaku, pinching a point between his eyebrows they can’t see. Yaku’s eyes are fixated at the bottom of the staircase. His eyes are unmoving, and he’s not the tiniest bit hypnotised by this psychologist wannabe. No amount of hypnotisation will be able to machete its way through his denial: they’re eighteen. They’re in the same university, almost too conveniently and unfortunately. They’re in the same dorm—himself and Kuroo. Room number 13 of the student accommodation complex closest to the medical campus.

“Just knock me out.” Yaku mutters, looking over his shoulder, wary of Kuroo, who might push him off and laugh at him while he tumbles end-over-end. The asymmetrical arches of his brows are all too familiar—the kind of challenge upon the start of a cage fight—it’s hard to pinpoint when they have ever cage-fought, at all. “What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.”

Kenma calls the tiny blood-rant before matches cheesy. Maybe he should’ve been here to see this. So Kuroo snorts, and says, “What doesn’t kill you should try harder.” He adds, “What kills you still kills you, though.”

  
**Lavender vs Plain**

(Toilet paper)

Here comes their first routine field trip to the supermarket. Living with Yaku is, to his surprise, not half as bad as he anticipated it to be. Up to this point, he hasn’t been ambushed behind the shower curtains. Nor has he tripped on his way to pee at night. Not even close to once. His favourite mug from home which he has owned since the age of five, not that anybody except Kenma would have to know, is still in one piece. And to be perfectly honest, Kuroo is a teeny bit disappointed that more chaotic things have not made their appearances. Kuroo pulls the trolley forward by the front, with Yaku stepping on the rung at the back, and juggles the tasks of deciding what to buy, mental arithmetics, and watching their way.

To be precise, chaotic things have made their appearances, though not at his expense. He is eternally grateful for that. So the story goes like this: upon a tragic occurrence of their ration of college-subsidised toilet paper running out—the meagre six rolls of them, and Yaku would call this an imperative to feed laxatives to the people in the residence office—Kuroo had been the messenger boy to go, door to door, and ask for a new roll while Yaku thrashed about in the bathroom, like a scared animal. This, Kuroo understands, because he’s always this kind. He understands the hopelessness when the last square peels off, uneasily, like a dressing from its wound, from the brown paper core. Who doesn’t understand, though? But that didn’t really serve as a disincentive to broadcasting it. Kuroo had been the messenger boy to go, door to door, and announce: _Oh! Sorry to bother you, but Yaku my roommate shits like an elephant, and we’ve run out of toilet paper. Do you by any chance happen to have a roll to spare?_

The treachery was uncovered in the lecture hall. Godless, as much as it could get, at eight in the morning. As long as they are still medical students, the dormitory is the faculty copied-and-pasted just fifteen minutes’ walk away. In both places, peer pressure is some next level shit he dealt with. Which he had been dealt with. And that traitor—a name he would henceforth call Oikawa Tooru by—announced it with that singing voice of his, the brightness of it on par with that of a megaphone. With the combined effort of a lecture hall’s worth of students plus a frail professor, he was forced into paying for toilet paper rolls, as long as he still lived with Yaku.

In brief, he narrowly escaped death. But, no. He’s bleeding to death from his wallet.

There is no tourniquet. Nobody so much as gives him gauze, fucking tissue, or _toilet paper_. He feels like an ouroboros. He shits out karma and feeds himself with said shit.

This is disgusting. He will definitely consult Sugawara Koushi, from the Law Faculty, on the matter of Human Rights Issues.

Back to their joyful supermarket field trip: they have encountered a reptile! By the sanitary products aisle. Daishou tuts a grand total of three times before speaking, and Kuroo wants to mash his lips together like those fucking M&M’s that he so carefully picked out for selective breeding, via crushing two M&M’s together until one of them cracks. Rinse and Repeat. He mailed the fittest to the M&M company.

“Wow, I see. You guys moved in together?” The reptile says. He picks up a pink package from the racks and inspects it, taken aback by the softness of the product. A second or two later, he seems to come to. He drops the packet of pads with a squeak, and his shadowy companion catches it just in time to replace it on the shelf. Clearing his throat, he adds, “Congrats, I guess. I _knew_ there was definitely _something_ going on. In high school.”

“Look.” Kuroo tells him, chopping his hand mid air to roast the subject. “If this is your way of projecting your fantasies on us, of you and sweet little Mika, I’d rather not. Hey, no judgements here. Everybody has their own coping mechanisms. It’s just that this guy has been incessantly trying to strangle me—”

“We’re roommates.” Yaku grits his teeth. “We get along just fine.”

Daishou raises a brow. He squints a little. He’s a vehicle that feeds on gossip. “Well, that’s _one_ way to put it.”

Rolling their eyes, collectively, they make their way towards the toilet paper roll section. Kuroo congratulates himself on teamwork, on being so _in sync_ , at least more so than his computer and his phone. They seem to establish a common wish that they should wax the whole of Daishou Suguru with the most painful strips, or stick up his nose as many tampons as physically possible. This is such a wet dream. But dreams are meant to be just dreams.

The bubble pops, when he sees Yaku strain himself on his toes to reach the third row up for a twelve roll pack. Twelve roll pack is, in the end, no surprise. He uses them. His family uses them. The Japanese Prime Minister probably uses them, as well. But _that_.

“Hold up, buddy.” Kuroo steps in front of him. He reads off the label: “ _Lavender-scented twelve roll pack._ Are you kidding me?”

Yaku crosses his arms. He is nothing, if not stubborn. “What is it now.”

The way he says it makes it sound like he has always used lavender-scented toilet rolls. Impossible. Kuroo laughs coldly. “Studies have shown that scented and coloured toilet paper increases the risk of rectal inflammation.”

“Fuck you.” Yaku says. He makes to spit, but is reminded they are in a supermarket instead of in an FBI interrogation room. So he wrenches the twelve-packer back. “You’re not my mum. I would wipe my ass with sandpaper just because I fucking could.”

“But you can’t. So you shan’t.” Kuroo is good at tug of war. “You can’t, because I’m actually paying for those. And I’m not paying for my ass to get inflamed.”

“What are you, butthurt? Do you just cry from an inflamed ass?” Yaku snaps. “Have some curry if you want it to.” He pushes the trolley away, running Kuroo over in the process.

Kuroo wants to be a martyr. Yaku won’t make him one.

  
**Skimmed vs Full-cream**

(Milk)

It has come to Yaku’s attention that not everybody makes an effort to uphold a certain quality of life. Such as Kuroo, who chooses to down skimmed milk like it’s some makeshift elixir. The problem is not the excessive consumption, but the _substance_ thereof: skimmed milk is unacceptable. It’s as tasteless as milk can get—not that Yaku has tried baby formula since he could ever remember, but he swears, skimmed milk is precisely that kind of monstrosity—and, what the hell. This just about takes away what makes milk _milk_. If you get to drink milk, drink some proper, whole milk. See? Even the name sounds better.

Kuroo does not seem to care, however. _Only a matter of time it is_ , Yaku mutters under his breath, _before he converts to the full-cream clan_. One of the many reasonings he inflicts on Kuroo is this: “The reason you can’t see properly,” Yaku pauses, for suspense, “is that you drink skimmed milk. It has lower levels of vitamin A.”

Pulling the trolley forward, Kuroo gives him a snort, more swine-like than feline, which he won’t be pleased to know. “I’m sure the contents don’t make that much a difference.” He says, “And also, that’s just my fringe.”

“You sure?” Yaku asks. If so, his impulse since the very first moment they met is becoming harder to hold back—he has always wanted that damn fringe out of the way—and they’re just passing by the sharps section.

They arrive at the dairy products.

“I’m sure.” Kuroo loads the trolley with a few cartons of skimmed milk, and it makes Yaku’s skin crawl to no end. Met with competition, for every carton of it, Yaku pulls two of the full-cream milk from the shelf. Soon they stack up to a state of a small mountain that threatens to crash, and Kuroo grabs Yaku’s hand as it adds another one, to bite the dust. “Seriously, can you even drink that much?”

“Are you underestimating my appetite?” Yaku squints.

Raising his own hands, Kuroo makes to back off. “No.” He eyes Yaku one last time, before caving into returning the cartons of milk onto the shelf together. “Never. But enlighten me: how has your appetite contributed to your...?” Lacking a better word for what would get his face flattened, he gestures to the top of Yaku’s head. Then to the floor, and up again. By the end of a thorough measure of Yaku’s height, Kuroo seems to finally come to. Come to the fact that he has let the taboo slip. He has years of experience to justify the sinking weight in his stomach, more acidic than milk gone bad. So his shoe gives a weak squeak on the linoleum of the supermarket floor before he adds, as a final plea. “If I may ask.”

Yaku smiles a little. Both of them know how this goes.

 

 _What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger._ Yaku thinks, as he rises out of the grave of his bed. Vertigo immediately takes over as his vision darkens, and a more logical part of him curses gravity, because that’s what makes all the blood rush to his feet while he stands up. As soon as logic leaves him to deal with Monday morning alone, the second thing he curses is the human nature to let everything pile up until it bursts through like a volcano. Everything seems to be due in on Wednesday, when it’s in the middle of the term, when all of them are mentally and physically dragged by all kinds of exertion.

In the kitchen, something’s rattling. It must be Kuroo—who else can it be? Who else microwaves leftover rice at six in the morning and eats it with natto? _It’s an acquired taste_ , Kuroo once told him, leaning close in a way he could show off his godawful breath. Luckily enough, they seem to have run out today. Kuroo digs further into the depths of the fridge for another pack, finding none. He stands by the open fridge doors, a carton of milk dangling from the loose hold of his hand, pale-yellow light shining upon him with random flickerings that speak of how old the facilities are. One minute later, the alarm beeps pathetically at the mistreatment, reminding him to close it. He closes it. Takes a swig from the carton. It suffices, if not just, in quenching his frustration.

“Thank fuck,” Yaku breathes fresh air in the kitchen. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing that brightens up his day. What adds to it is how uncannily kind Kuroo’s being, despite the catastrophe. Familiar with Yaku’s breakfast routine, he passes the milk. Yaku takes it, giving not a glance before unfolding the spout and taking a swig.

Then he freezes.

It takes a substantial amount of effort to hold back instincts. For example now, there’s something tasteless on his tongue that is milk, he knows, but is the problematic kind. It’s the skimmed milk that Kuroo insists on drinking like it’s liquid gold.

That’s only the first of the many things he acknowledges. While he bites his teeth and gulps, he realises the second thing: he just drank from the same carton as Kuroo. Sure, sharing is caring. He’s heard of people who share the same hairdryer. He’s also heard of people who share their beds. Hell, some people share the same piece of gum, from what he’s seen on campus. At this rate, sharing a carton of milk might just be the least weird out of them.

Which leads onto his third observation: the carton of milk is more than half-full, which means Kuroo’s only opened it this morning. To have put his mouth on it, now, Yaku sees a fat chance of it ending up in the bin without expressing its full potential. With such conclusion, he feels a tad apologetic. 10/10 would be more so, if there weren’t a literal hell liquified in his mouth. He can’t speak. Feels too queasy. So he slides the carton across their kitchen table silently.

Kuroo looks up from his plain bowl of rice. With eyes trained on the abused spout of the carton, there’s only so much horror he can express with a deadpan. He keeps his face calm, or tries to. And Yaku hears an incoming preach he can recite backwards even in his sleep. This is how it goes: “I swear to _god_ , Yaku, how many times do I have to tell you _not_ to stick your _finger_ in the folds to open it—how do you even get into med school like this?” A lecture on correct carton-opening normally ensues.

Normally. _Normally_ , that’d be nothing more than hearing someone passing wind fifteen minutes minus the foul smell. Now though, Yaku realises, he has inflicted his heedlessness on Kuroo, and most importantly on his newly opened litre-carton. The rest is to go. Nothing can go back. Just as Yaku wonders whether he feels bad for the wasted milk instead of for Kuroo, he hears a small whimper.

At the table, Kuroo’s face crumbles. It looks as bad as their attempts at scrambled egg, but not unusual for a student undergoing university education that is morally questionable at best. Yaku knows he has fucked up. He has ruined his roommate's breakfast at a critical period of the term. It means papers will be scrapped; lectures will be missed; and volleyball will be doomed. Knowing that it was his actions that have directly fucked up Kuroo’s day, Yaku does his best to do the Cooing Noise. The come-on-doggie, who’s-a-good-boy Cooing Noise. “God, Kuroo, I’m so sorry. I’m gonna buy you a new one once we’re off class.”

“No, you’re not,” Kuroo looks away, face scrunching up. _He looks pained,_ Yaku notes, _in a really annoying way._ In his mental checklist, he crosses off _paediatrics_ because he can’t imagine himself to willingly deal with anything of the sort. At a loss for words, he repeats himself, more sincerely this time, “Look, I’m really gonna buy you milk.”

“I don’t believe you,” Kuroo whines. And, damn whichever ancestor who sinned enough to land him of this kind of karma, Yaku just can’t handle upset people. The sobbing soon gets to him. Before he even realises, he’s running a hand to pat Kuroo on the head, and a promise is made, “No, I’m gonna buy you milk. I’m gonna buy you ten cartons of that skimmed milk, I swear—“

“Okay.” Kuroo says. His face snaps back to his usual in the morning. He chews his rice. He digs his chopsticks into the bowl and delivers another bite. Rinse and repeat.

Yaku blinks, not quite processing it. The turn of events is too much for him. Did he just get blackmailed? Did Kuroo just provoke him into buying ten cartons of that sinful, no-good skimmed milk? With a crack in his voice, he croaks, “What?”

The pair of chopsticks digging into the rice doesn’t stop. Yaku looks at Kuroo, who finishes chewing before opening his mouth—such good manners—and says, “I said, ‘ _Okay_.’” Another bite, “Apology accepted on that condition.”

  
**Mint vs Strawberry**

(Toothpaste)

They invite the whole of Nekoma to their dorm room. It's too small a place to adequately contain some ten teenagers averaging the height of 1.8 metres and averaging the energy level of a five-year-old. But that's perfectly fine—their neighbours don't fare much better, and that's a fair enough justification for their morally questionable ventures. Kuroo solemnly hopes they won’t break anything important, because that'd cost a kidney to repair. And even though they have all the more access to such kind of procedures because of what they choose to study, and normal people have two functional kidneys, which means they can go by with just one, it doesn't mean the party involved is anywhere close to deserving his young and fresh kidney.

The moment arrives: a shriek from the bathroom. For some time spent away from their high school and its VBC, Kuroo has perhaps become too comfortable with his status quo; the peace of mind even when Yaku threatens to trip him on his feet in the morning if he breathes wrong around him; when he threatens to invent a dent in the quality brain with the corner of their almost empty cupboard.

Barreling towards the bathroom, with a frying pan still sizzling away in his hand, Kuroo sees his own worried reflection in the smudged mirror that speaks of their subpar housekeeping routines, but perhaps not so much of their habit of wrapping tin foil around bowls so they don't have to do dishes. In front of it stands Lev, hunched over the sink with an alarming angle in his spine. He's holding a cup in his hand.

"Kuroo-san," Lev says, hands trembling. The toothbrushes and toothpaste tubes jiggle about in the plastic container. The cup is one Kuroo so cherished from home—it was a birthday present from Kenma at age ten, one with coloured blue liquid and plastic fish between the two layers of translucent plastic and will make a picture of an aquarium when tilted. It's just like any other odd cup. What's wrong?

The bacon in the pan stops sizzling, indicating how long they've stood across each other just staring. At last, Lev puts the innocent cup down by the tap. He seems to have come into terms with whatever struggle he's been torn over for the past three minutes.

Kuroo, however, cannot come into terms with whatever that comes next. In the morning that closely follows the Nekoma sleepover, he finds out about the Enlightenment of the Cup, the Two Toothbrushes, and the Two Tubes of Toothpaste.

The supermarket can either be a reflection of heaven or hell—if he can't move heaven, he'll raise hell. The best and worst in the world can simultaneously be there, and this is the amount of doublethink he can't manage. By the shampoo section, Daichi arches a brow at Kuroo, and his eyes flit to Yaku who picks out a tube of strawberry flavoured kid toothpaste, then back to Kuroo again.

In a captain-y fashion, Kuroo walks over to greet him. He ignores the amount of hair products piling up in a way they can barely see each other at eye level, and Sugawara doesn't seem to register the fact that he only has one (1) head to use those lovechildren of capitalism and perfectionism on a Very Specific Body Part.

"I know," Kuroo gives a pained smile on Yaku's behalf. "He's a bit weird, isn't he? Strawberry-flavoured toothpaste. Suitable for age five."

Daichi returns the gesture by pointing his chin at his trolley. Then he arches a brow again, like he perfectly understands the perk of living with the most sensible one on the team. Often they set too high standards for themselves, or ones that they deem so high that normal mortals won't even comprehend. Yaku and Sugawara encompass the two extremes and anything in between.

"So, how are you guys doing?"

With that question, the supermarket spins. Temporary dissociation sets in and the memory of arguing over milk, toilet paper, breakfast habits, shampoo choices, and laundry detergent washes over him. Sometimes those disputes can be terrestrial (by the way of Kuroo getting swept off his feet with whatever martial arts Yaku's been deploying) or air-borne (there's little room for error, given that Yaku can receive anything coming in his way, and pass it back with inhumane accuracy). Daichi must sense that, too. He pats Kuroo somewhere on his back, lips quirking into a curve of a judgmental grandma. "Ah, I see."

"Yeah, you see."

"Trouble in paradise."

"Yeah, you—" Kuroo drops the bottle of coke in his hand. It gives a shocking twang as it hits the bottom of a shelf, and it rings, rings, rings in his ears. He might just be that bit unhinged because of normal university student circumstances, but that doesn't mean he'll dream of something that he won't confront with a good kilometre's distance from himself. "—what?"

At this moment, Sugawara and Yaku converge on them in the middle of two aisles of flashy-coloured shampoo and toothpaste packaging. There's an air of confidence—certainty—like in a microsecond, Daichi will be calling his bluff. With a flick of his wrist, Daichi holds out a phone, displaying something that looks Very Familiar.

Very Familiar. A moment or two passes with a churning in his stomach that equals the monstrosity of a mixture of milk and lemon juice. It takes another ten seconds before Kuroo realises why it looks so familiar. And he certainly does not understand why a photo of such a thing would be on Daichi's phone. He has not been to their dorm.

"I mean," Daichi shrugs, slipping the phone back into his back pocket. "Sure, you can call it anything you want. It's a thing between you two, anyway, right?" Beside him, Sugawara gives an open-mouth smile to Yaku, teeth white and gleaming in a way that can drag Pikachu's ass so bad the whole Japan would be zapped to semi-death. He puts down one (1) last bottle of hair product and hooks Yaku into the crook of his elbow, both of them walking down the aisle to somewhere unknown.

"Sawamura." Kuroo holds up a hand to rub his temples. This is a definition of Mind Blown, and he feels full-blown out of himself, and that his life is divided into two parts: life before knowing he has been sharing the same cup with Yaku for brushing teeth, and life after. It's not even the implication of what their companionship is like that bothers him. It's the fact that Yaku drinks full-cream milk. That's the greasiest thing in the world he can imagine, and he has been putting that thing to his mouth; the thing that can beat the atrocity of Hades's asshole. Plus, Yaku uses lavender-scented toilet paper. Assuming that he's been having the case of a burning asshole for the stint they've been living together, the chances of Yaku passing those evil little germs to him through indirect mouth-to-mouth contact is significant, given how much shit Yaku spews from his mouth on a daily basis. Which means Kuroo will be contracting a burning asshole sooner or later.

"Kuroo?" Sawamura prods, placing a good-natured hand on his shoulder. Yes, this is a kind gesture. He wouldn't know so much about his health risks of living with Yaku, and is probably more concerned with the emotional front of his life. So Kuroo decides to get his shit together, to at least find it in himself to make an explanation for the shared cup with two toothbrushes and two tubes of incompatible toothpaste tubes.

"Yeah. So, the thing is, Yaku's glass broke one day, and he's one of those people who can't handle brushing teeth without one." Kuroo supplies, "He was dirt-broke at the time."

"And how long ago was that?" Sawamura asks.

"Two months." Kuroo says, honest.

Sawamura gives him an all-over, as if he's visually and emotionally trying to debug Kuroo. There comes a point where he only sighs, because Kuroo's not a code, and anything human can't be fixed that way. He gives his verdict, "I'm not buying that."

Behind his back, footsteps approach them. Kuroo looks around his shoulder. In the middle of two aisles of colourful shampoo bottles, in the sweet scent of body lotion testers not far away, stand Sugawara and Yaku.

Two cola-can-thick candles sit confusedly in Yaku's hands, and the imagery only reminds Kuroo of the time when he saw a butterfly land on a cat's paw.

Yaku looks up at him at a genuine loss for words. He searches for something comprehensible to them mortal beings on Sugawara's face, only finding none but a mega-watt smile that somehow vibes off sinister energy despite the brightness. He looks back at Kuroo again. From this angle, the crown of his head is perfectly visible. He'd get hit if the likes of _bird's-eye view_ slips from his tongue, so he settles to laughing.

 _Trippy_. Bokuto's voice says in the back of his mind. _That's lit, man._ His hands make for the candles, white and cream and pink swirling, set in the solid.

"Suga told me to get those," Yaku says. He frowns at his hands. "I'm not sure why."

Sometimes—most of the time—Sugawara's cheekier than most people give him credit for. And under normal circumstances, Kuroo would give him a medal.

Under normal circumstances, that is.

 _Light some candles, man._ Bokuto's voice tells him again. _That'd be so fucking lit!_

 

(Fortunately or not, they're not lighting any candles. Once upon a time, the traitor-next-door angered the fire alarm in the midst of January while summoning some alien in a pentagon. Yaku was in the shower. There will never be something that can level the stunt he pulled to strangle Oikawa while his hair was soaking wet in the subfreezing temperature.)

 

**Salted vs Caramel**

(Popcorn)

The sight drowns him with deja-vu. It's not as suffocating as he's imagined it would be again, because Yaku did come through alright with that abused ankle of his since first year, and more surprisingly, with how little self-preservation he has in stock. When Kuroo crouches down, first he sees the sweaty muss of Yaku's hair. A comment of how it hasn't changed since the moment he had risen out of the mess of his bed just few hours ago would be creepy, so he refrains. The second thing he does is to crouch even lower, or almost lying down on the gym floor so their eyes are level. There's minimal annoyance to be seen on both ends, and Yaku stretches his leg out so that his toes are pointing towards the ceiling.

"Here it goes again?" Kuroo quips, resting his chin on his hand.

"Here goes." Yaku sighs. Reaching out for Kuroo's not as difficult as he's imagined it would be, because Kuroo did do so last time, under whatever obligation he had as a captain, or so Yaku assumes; and more surprisingly, with that kind heart of his, or so he claims. For so long, he’s gained bruises and carpet burns more fervently than they tend to fade. Extrapolating from this, and the history he has with bad ankles, he should've deviced himself with a tolerance to such afflictions. But even with what little medical knowledge he has, it's universal that this pain-tolerance mechanism is virtually non-existent.

It involves a slew of ice packs in their underused freezer, and a slew of melted ones lying around the dorm. It involves Kuroo hooking an arm under each of Yaku's knees from the weight on his back, and shrieking until the whole campus could hear how foolproof the choke hold is on his throat while he carried their combined weight back to their dorm. It involves trump-card-esque abuse of roomie privileges, such as fetching the remote, pouring a glass of water, wheeling said tyrant around on a supermarket trolley (although this seems to be a continuation or, rather, a deterioration), and lastly, the most lethal of all: choosing movies.

Kuroo has heard many things about _Batman vs Superman: Dawn of Justice_. Their neighbour claims to have ingested every single piece of information that so much as touches on outer space, but it would never have prepared him for this.

More unprepared is Yaku, who was the one to pick this atrocity of whichever deity that guards the toilets. Their toilet, in particular. Their running commentary lapses into silence once Superman discovers Batman's mother shared the same name as his mother, and hence the dissolving of their rivalry. Haphazard high-speed transportation in the city ensues.

If anything, Kuroo can make a powerpoint on the precise elements that make up the feeling _short-changed_ : the fact he was blackmailed into paying for the rented movie, the subject thereof, and the sheer proportion of kernels in Yaku's choice of popcorn. The last one is especially important, because caramel popcorn is all kinds of chaotic. They stick with each other; there's increased likelihood of developing cavities in the long run; the snack is the sweet taste of type 2 diabetes.

Action scenes flash by, ever so repetitive. At this time of the year, with the radiator on and both of them wrapped in blankets on the sofa, the slow motion punches on the screen wrenches away his hold on reality, and it slips out of his mouth. It slips. "If our mothers had the same names," Kuroo asks, "would you stop this?"

Yaku turns to look at him, stuffing a handful of popcorn into his mouth. He chews with his mouth closed, too—thank god—and then he says, "Her name's Tomoko."

"Fuck my life." Kuroo says. His mum's name is Hitomi. What are the odds—even with the kind of slurred speech induced by the 99% ethanol he once saw in a lab—that the two would sound remotely alike? So he gets up and walks to the freezer, opens it, sticks his hand in it, and pulls out an ice pack. The one on Yaku's ankle has long since melted enough to be pliable.

"I can't take guys who wear their knickers outside a jumpsuit seriously." Yaku comments once he pads back.

This one he's heard too often, but he's nothing but prepared. "You know why he's like that?" Kuroo wraps a towel around the cold packet, wraps it around Yaku's ankle. "Printing comics costed a kidney back in the days. It was almost impossible to distinct the groin from the legs in four colour printing, so they added the underwear."

For a moment, Yaku has his eyes wide open. He stares at Kuroo, who stands by his feet and lets the molten ice pack go limp in his hold. In the background, the radiator ticks with whatever timer it's been set, and the steam from his mug of tea rises up, regardless of the stalemate. Whatever this is, Yaku is, definitely, in no way impressed, so he says, "I see you've done your research."

"'course I have." Kuroo's smile is altogether triumphant. He tilts his head, hands in motion again, tossing the ice pack upwards. Once, twice. "Unless you prefer seeing his butt end half-way up his legs. You see, I can't quite get your tastes. You find a guy with the voice of a broken exhaust attractive."

"I'm sure there are some Darth Vader fantasies out there." Yaku points his chin towards their next door. "You won't say that's preferable. Or will you?"

The trap is shut. Kuroo has nothing constructive to add. It's a truth universally acknowledged, that this one person who’s just _that_ bit unhinged for Darth Vader on their floor _must_ become a traitor in every other aspect of his life. He settles beside Yaku again, blanket still warm from his half-minute walk of shame to and from the fridge. The movie keeps going; their tea keeps cooling; the radiator keeps ticking. The ice melts slowly and surely on Yaku's ankle, and it finally grows numb.

The movie keeps going. At a particularly hectic scene, Yaku says, "It's not that I like Batman and Batman only."

"So you're finally admitting you love Darth Vader, too." Reaching his hand out for the first puff of regret in Yaku's bowl, because hungry students simply have to make-do and compromise, he says.

"No. I mean," Again, Yaku stuffs a handful of popcorn into his mouth. What nuke of overpowering sweetness it tastes like, Kuroo cringes imagining. Yaku continues, "Bruce Wayne too. It's also about the person behind the figure of a hero."

Kuroo arches a brow at him, looking at the screen still. Barely following what insipid plot lies under poorly executed fighting, disguised by slow motion, he considers a way to mince his words, because of reasons. In other words, it has come to his attention that a) the things they talk about and; b) the things they do are prone to misunderstanding, or perhaps they are something that has yet to sink in. Asking each other which type they find their jam to be—this would fall into that category, so it's best to avoid such a discussion. "So the millionaire playboy type, who sleeps with at least one love interest for every instalment?" The question dies on his tongue, and he winces. That's precisely what he aimed to digress away from.

The sight drowns him in deja-vu. It's not like this is the first time they've ventured into dangerous territory. What can be more offensive than announcing each other's toilet habits to the whole floor, or blackmailing ten litre-cartons’ worth of money? It's also the crown of Yaku's head he sees, like the many times, or all the time. And he has, after trial and error, learnt to keep his mouth shut about the matter of height this time.

"Not so much that, even." Yaku taps his absolutely sticky, sugary finger on his lower lip in contemplation. He looks at Batman on the screen. For a moment, or forever, Kuroo would assume Yaku to stare at it until the fight finishes. So much as lick Batman's pectoral muscles, too, because there's no limit to him, not even for the fat content of his milk. As the screen dissolves into dullness, the line of thought reconnects: "It's just the bad boy kind, y'know?"

A gulp, and a croak. "Bad boy?"

When Kuroo turns to look at Yaku, Yaku looks back at him. It looks like a painkiller high, or what he imagines it to look like. Should be the case for Yaku, because he's on painkillers, right. If this really, really is the case though, the whole of the hospital crew would fall in love with him, because he'd look _lit_ through a dreamy filter. If this is really, really the case, Kuroo’s not surprised by how much he feels out of himself right now, despite the absence of painkillers on his end.

"Yeah. Not without a kind heart though." Yaku cracks an open-mouthed grin, and his teeth are tiny. _Leetle teeth_ , he narrates in Bokuto's voice. _Like a diplodocus_ , Tsukki's voice deadpans. "So you can say, apparent-bad-boy type. Looks like an asshole but has a kind heart type."

It doesn't sink. It lands.

 

**You vs Me**

"Am I a bad boy, Bokuto?"

A beat of silence awaits him, then: "What the _fuck_ , Kuroo." The phone in his hand squeaks, a tinny resemblance of Bokuto's voice makes them sound far, far apart. But in fact, there's only a fifteen minute's walk between them, with how close their universities are. "You okay?"

Kuroo presses his forehead against a bike rack outside the medical library. It's two in the morning, a few days after New Year. He's buried neck-deep in powerpoint slides and reference books. On top of that, an anvil of a question threatens to snap his neck, despite his efforts of fortifying it with a thick scarf that braves the Antarctic AC inside. But this is no excuse, he knows. "Yeah. Sorry, that came out weird."

The other end of the line sounds thoughtful. A few more seconds take their time before Bokuto's worried voice bleeds through. "It's alright. Hey, really though, what happened? Do you want me to come over?"

In the sub-zero temperature he can derive from the frost on the railing, the sentiment warms him up. Two quiet bikes on either end of the rack keeps him grounded—at least there are still losers who permanently inhabit here. And to be honest, he's been lacking human interaction as of late, because he doesn't even go back to the dorm except for showers and laundry. So he says, "My parents aren't in the library."

This time, without missing a beat, the plan is made. "Coming over."

 

Yaku steps out of the door. The corridor of their floor is the best place to pace along and memorise Gram negative bacteria. His wristwatch beeps at seven in the morning, and he must be able to recite them backwards by eight. This is one worry. Another worry is his ability to count the number of times Kuroo returns to the dorm—from whichever trench he crawls out of—on one hand over the fortnight. At first he came back for the amount of sleep that would require something only the Japanese could invent: the Spartan, coffee-flavoured Monster drink. All hope is lost by the end of the first week. Their dorm is empty as it is, with a figure, barely recognisable with how pale it is, coming through the door. Kuroo looks as if he suffers from excessive blood loss due to improper castration. From the heap of clean-smelling laundry, he pulls out five pairs of boxers and stuffs them into the depths of a duffle bag. He disappears afterwards.

Not much of Kuroo can be seen now, except when Yaku memorises Gram negative bacteria again. At around noon time, he would see Kuroo sit down on the lone bench by the library entrance across their street. He would see a cat step around Kuroo's old Nikes and find the perfect spot to curl up on, and then Bokuto would bring whatever pathetic processed food that keeps the corner store running.

So Yaku memorises Gram negative bacteria at noon, and marks the cat that goes from circling Kuroo's shoes to directly jumping onto his lap for free lunch access. The pattern continues, like a clockwork. And Yaku is almost, almost too comfortable with this routine until—

Until at an ungodly hour during the second week, the sound of a fire alarm wakes him. It's not so much panic, but annoyance that rises up in his throat he could bellow. Whoever’s decided to light a flame, even if it was to offer incense to the health deities, he'll severe. It takes him moments to identify the sound: much quieter than their own alarm, and the lights on the ceiling are not flashing. There's that.

When he steps out of the door, there's already a crowd. Oikawa looks fresh and awake, and Yaku has him down as a suspect. The truth is not this, however. The fire engine arrives in a flurry of red lights and sirens. Two firemen walk towards the meagre line of five people on the grass outside the library, and it won't be. It's impossible. Well, not downright _impossible_ , because Bokuto Koutarou from Fukuroudani always has a way to go by security. He has the potential to even bypass national security one day, Yaku wagers.

In front of the glowing doors of the library, right, a line of five shivers in the cold. At the very back stand Kuroo and Bokuto, and a burnt blanket between them. There are questions. A lot of them. But then there is also his sleep, waiting for him in his own unburnt blanket.

The next morning steamrolls him with the news. In the world, there exists one (1) such Bokuto Koutarou who sneaks into the medical library of a different university. Whatever he does in there, it doesn't quite matter because surprisingly, he's very much on top of his studies. Kuroo blames it on his subject, because with maths, _you can just derive anything_. With medicine, _recite the smallprint on slide thirteen, lecture ninety-three. Verbatim, backwards, asleep, in Latin and Greek._ Whatever. The focus of the news was how a blanket caught fire from a laptop. Bokuto swears it wasn't overheating, though the browse history the library staff provided reveals fifteen simultaneous visits to memegenerator.net.

Hell is empty, but the devils _don't_ necessarily have to be _here_ , Yaku reasons. Here, refers to the exact location of room thirteen of the medical school student complex. Here, refers to the living room, size of his pinkie toe nail. Here, refers to the sofa that barely manages to hold up under the combined weight of Bokuto, Kuroo, and himself. There's a burnt blanket over a layer of unburnt blanket covering them. The radiator's ticking away, softly this time, because they're quiet with the chirping birds outside. The library is closed for two hours for follow-up checks and resetting the smoke detector. There's nowhere else for this culprit to go, because there are also colour-printed CCTV screenshots (too extravagant: it costs eight printing credits) of Bokuto waving a blanket aflame, plastered onto the library doors. _BEWARE_ , they say. _MEME GENERATING ARSONIST._

During Bokuto's retreat, the whole complex collectively waves tissues in his direction. Life resumes afterwards, but the library is still closed. Kuroo lies on their sofa and stares into the ceiling, like it's some portal that would transport him straight to six years later, when he would've passed all his exams and become a houseman. What makes it eerie is the chant he whispers. Upon closer inspection, Yaku recognises it to be a string of drugs for the nervous system.

And like any other time Kuroo returns, he goes just as quickly and for just as long.

On the second day since the incident comes a phone call from a number estranged. Half-tempted to just pass it, Yaku considers the odds of Kuroo being trapped between two of those moving shelves in the library, and the library staff calling him up to help identify him. There _exist_ those odds, and Yaku won't pass off the opportunity for a good laugh, so he answers the call.

It is not who he expected.

"Hey, Yaku, this is Bokuto." He says, "I'm using Konoha's phone to call, because, yeah, this is kinda private."

Yaku frowns. _This is kinda private_ kicks off all the alarms in his head. But, hey, he saw this guy drag a burnt blanket across the frozen pavement just two days ago, who'll be shoved off his feet the instance he sets foot on any part of the university property. The situation is in his favour, so to speak. It's not like Bokuto would fly into his window like an angry bird. He says, "Fire away."

He does fire away. Not in the amount of words, not in the speed, but in the _punch_ of the information. 

"Has... has Kuroo been into some weird stuff, lately?"

"You’ll have to be more specific. Hugging a burnt blanket is weird enough." Yaku sighs.

The few seconds before Bokuto starts again are hesitant, but he does so anyway. "I mean, kinky stuff."

"Bokuto," Yaku's voice breaks at the last syllable. This name, as it is, is the definition of hysterical. He's not sure he wants to know the specifics. He has no idea what _kinky_ refers to, in this context. "You’ll have to be more specific."

Bokuto's end sounds constipated. The line sends through something between a deep breath and a wheeze. "More specific, alright. Brace yourself, you're never gonna be prepared." And Yaku does, just in time for the beat to drop:

"He asked me, _Am I a bad boy, Bokuto?_ "

 

**Me vs You**

There should be a cap on the speed a human being can jaywalk across a frozen car lane without breaking a bone. Or more importantly, the neck. Yaku flips his lid. The cap is foregone, along with relativity, which Bokuto ranted about in his sleep on their sofa just two days ago. There should also be a cap on the number of jumps a heart can give per minute. He can't count, not with the ringing in his ears that drowns out the ticking of their library's clock, not with the warmth in a jacket two sizes larger than his own. He can count the confused faces lining row after row of tables, though. There's no Kuroo. The same goes for the second floor, which leaves him the third.

But the gist of third floor is—nobody uses it. That’s right— _nobody_ uses it. The entirety of it is reserved for reference books of murderous thicknesses, and the gaps between shelves are so narrow, a librarian once found out she was pregnant there. In this case, there's not much to see. Yaku skips up the steps in twos, and twos. And twos, until he can't, because of a person blocking his way. Mouth open and ready to snide, because anybody with Basic Human Decency would know to take the longer route when descending the stairs, he recognises the sneakers. Patched in red and black, they're a pair of Air Jordans.

It's not so much the Air Jordans, but the double knots that have their bows tucked behind the tongue of each shoe. The feet shift, and Yaku looks up, to see Kuroo staring down at him from a few steps above.

Once they're outside the library, Yaku pulls Kuroo towards a café. Outside the glass doors, he warns, "Give me a good reason why you said something so traumatising to Bokuto, otherwise you're paying for my triple scoop." He doesn't mean to say something that sounds so _protective_ , but Bokuto's a good enough a figure of speech for now. Kuroo perks up at mentions of him, even in his sleep. And so to add credibility to his statement, Yaku tugs Kuroo by the drawstrings of his university team hoodie. He doesn't have to test it—Kuroo bends down a little, with little else to give, at the brink of passing out from the lifestyle he manages to uphold until now.

The sight drowns him in deja-vu, and Yaku can and can't remember when they've done this, or whether they have, at all. It seems they haven't. The last time he checked, they weren't looking at each other like this, like they weren't about to bite each other's nose off.

The bell above the door jingles, signalling they're blocking the way. Kuroo tries, "It's two degrees right now."

"Can't hear you." Yaku says. He pulls on the drawstrings harder, and the hood around Kuroo's face tightens, revealing only Kuroo's nose and mouth. Nose. Mouth. Batman.

In a voice raspier than usual, for whatever mosh-pit screaming he might've subjected himself to on the third floor, Kuroo says, "I'd rather pay."

Yaku takes a gulp, and—there should be a _cap_ on how difficult those reflexes feel in critical situations. There should be a cap on how quick human reflexes can be; how quickly he lets go of his hold on the drawstrings, spins on his heels, sees his own blurry reflection in the double-glazed glass. He pushes the handle before he can run into the door, with how dizzy he ends up being, probably from looking at his overlapping image. He doesn't hold the door open. He doesn't. He doesn't see, but hears a dull slap not far behind him. It is then he knows how to look back.

The hysterics are in full swing. Just outside the glass doors that move back and forth but damping down, Kuroo doubles over the sidewalk, hood still drawn over his eyes, a hand covering his nose. Pedestrians from all directions, who are as likely to be medical students as they are, gather around him. What in him forces out a bark of laughter, Yaku doesn't quite know. He has it, anyway, and it doesn't matter. What matters now is, as he stumbles out of the café into the cool, February air, he doubles up beside Kuroo for an entirely different reason, shaking enough to induce an earthquake.

All the medical students are confused. They disperse.

On the bench where Kuroo so often has his lunch, as Yaku has always observed, they sit. A cup of steaming coffee on Kuroo's lap, and a cone with three globes piled on top in Yaku's gloved hands. In descending order: matcha, azuki bean, and Hokkaido specialty select 3.6 milk ice cream. Kuroo pulls out the rolled-up tissue from his nose. He inspects it under the light, holding it up towards sun. The bleeding has stopped.

"I want my money back." He says, pinching the bridge of his nose. Yaku would file that under Guilt-tripping Techniques, like those Puss-in-Boots eyes, if he hadn't found it so fucking funny yet felt so thoroughly apologetic. The bruises under his eyes are bad enough, the one on his nose makes his face go south, but not in a bad way. It rings: _bad boy_. _Bad boy._ Apparent bad boy, made by a door slammed in his face. So he stands up, free hand open for Kuroo to take.

It's a stalemate, as always. Kuroo looks at the offending tool that pushed open the door and let it swing back. He looks at it, like it would slap him in the face this time, of its own accord. He asks, "Where are we going?"

 _To hell_ is an answer he expected, as it is from most of them in the area. There's a highway not far away, and this is a commonly accepted justification, if one doesn't have the stomach for psychologically disturbing details of caffeine pills crushed under a cup and subsequently dusted into a pan of black coffee, set to simmer until it becomes sludge. _To hell_ is an answer he expected, yet Yaku has always given him exceptions. And he _is_ one, per se.

"Back." He announces, pulling by the hand Kuroo has no idea when he held onto. The wool of Yaku's gloves catches his fingers. "We're going _back_. I'm cooking you lunch, then you're going to _sleep_."

 

 

There should be a cap on the extent to which normal cooking can act up. There's a collective fear for the fire alarm. And for now, even without eyes on the back of his head, he can sense the face Kuroo makes while scrolling through his favourite playlist. He can see, with his sixth sense, the way Kuroo balances his phone between the two plastic cups that produce stereo. "You listen to Céline Dion on a daily basis." Kuroo comments, "How come you're not so _titanic?_ "

A bang on the stove is his response. Yaku switches the fire off and turns around. He crosses his arms, watches Kuroo's laughter dwindle down to nothing, hears the mackerel on the pan sizzle pathetically, quietly now. _And my heart will go on and on_ hangs in the air as Kuroo hops off the kitchen counter, closing the distance between them. Closing the height, closing more of the distance.

When it's about to happen, Yaku hisses, like a threat, "You're gonna have your back broken." Closing the height, closing the distance, Kuroo hunches over him. And even without a third pair of eyes outside of himself, Yaku knows how incredibly elegant they must look. At this proximity, he finally catches a glimpse of Kuroo's Mysterious Right Eye. It looks just the same as his left. A mirror image, and maybe a little bigger, for the human asymmetry. Then in the corner of his eye, he sees a resemblance of a shrug. Kuroo leans in closer.

When it's about to end, Yaku opens his eyes, and he sees Kuroo do the same. _And my heart goes on and on_ arrives at them again, with a verse's time already lapsed into lost breaths, and Kuroo’s smells vaguely of mint, which is impressive, considering the number of times he’s actually bothered to brush his teeth in the past month. Kuroo does not lose his words, however. He straightens himself, making a show of how agonising it must be, joints popping and all. He says, "You're right. I have my back broken."

"Kuroo."

"I guess it's pretty brokeback in here, huh?"

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> \- ["Okay."](http://skincaredonethat.tumblr.com/post/109361133181/alexandranikole-twerknugget-i-feel-so-bad)
> 
> \- [Correct milk carton opening protocol](https://youtu.be/C60fHBLRhrc)
> 
> \- [Memegenerator.net](https://memegenerator.net/) (Is anyone surprised that they SSL-ed this site? There are actual concerns that called for encryption.)


End file.
